It is with words that man can incite and words he can make love, but to threaten those who rule is a treasonous affair.
I, Brimley Tinderbuss, am not shocked by the King's new order nor surprised by the populace's quiet acceptance of it. I am convinced it will be just another shovel of dirt to suppress the good hard working people of the city of London. Questionably, I being one of them, believe all should be concerned by the precedential meaning of the thieving of honest money through taxation of even the simplest of life’s necessities.
Sitting hunched over my desk, tucked tight in the corner of a small but warm attic. My quill scratches endlessly on not-too-cheap parchment. The feather but a blur – my mind too fast for my fingers. My eyes are too weakened to make perfect the words I conjure and my mind sprints ahead of my writing. I encourage my fingers tight on feather-quill to keep pace, always the losing race...until the words become unintelligible and my mind trips and forgets the direction I seek.